By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret.
Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum
Chapter Twelve: Strange Anticipations
With Dirty Harriette behind emergency room doors, the police Chief introduced the Mayor to Dude and the pair shook hands, with little more than polite greetings. The Mayor was preoccupied with himself, and Dude immediately stepped back out of the picture after the introduction. Dude's entire rather gracious demeanor was evasive, meant to help him stay in the shadier areas of awareness.
The mob of reporters had moved outside to escape the gas problem, their number adding to the uniformed police officers and those arriving in need of medical attention. It was a hectic scene and the Chief kept shouting for his men to keep things under control, to keep the street and walkways clear. The Mayor ignored Dude to pull the Chief aside and begin questioning him. The Chief was blunt, blurting out answers that told the Mayor little.
"John, I didn't know what to say, so I told them it was blood," he snarled, finally tired of the same question. The Mayor stopped, placed a hand on the Chief's shoulder, took a deep breath and shook his head, letting the Chief know they needed to tell the voters more because the election was approaching. He looked up to the Chief and pleaded.
"Give me something on the shootings, anything. I have to face the citizens and need something to tell them," he said. Because of the upcoming election, he was growing more impatient and upset with the situation. Elections were in November, just months away.
As the throng continued outside the hospital, the police began dispersing those blocking entrances, and setting up barricades to form perimeters. The reporters had deadlines, and were irked by the lack of information, about ready to call it a day, when a midnight blue limousine pulled up. The limo with tinted windows pulled into a spot reserved for emergency vehicles. Doors opened and six titans in midnight blue suits and ties emerged wearing dark glasses and fedoras. The media knew who this was and pushed the cops out of the way in their attempt to record the emerging figure. They moved as a unit to surround the well-dressed goons, who were protecting a distinguished grey-haired gentleman as he slipped from his enclave, leaving behind a pair of rather well-proportioned giggling blondes. It was George 'Big Balls' Martinelli and the reporters became frenzied. Every camera zoomed in on the bulge in his trousers, which appeared more alive and active than usual.
Questions came as a polite barrage, sprayed at Mr. Martinelli, who stood behind his entourage and surveyed the scene with disdain. Cameras were all over his crotch, and the rest of his body too. Bright lights and microphones battled for position. Everyone knew why he was there. Everyone knew of his promise, or threat, depending on your point of view. He promised to one day bed Harriette and leave her the dizzy bimbo he knew she was, throbbing under the detective's thin veneer of toughness, demanding recognition.
"Riffraff," he murmured under his breath to one of his henchmen. "But they love me and need me, and I love them in my own way," he crowed, standing tall, adjusting his tie. He was an elegant dresser, a gentleman who loved the spotlight and liked seeing his name in print. Finally, he took a fine cigar from his lips, smiled for the cameras, and made to answer one of the reporter's inquiries. At that, silence befell the rabble, as they all knew he was a quiet man, a more than influential figure, and he never repeated himself, publicly.
"I am here because my future acquisition has been wounded," he began in his deep Italian accent, the hand with the cigar animating his words. "As you all know, I consider Harriette my woman, and Saint Nickedemo's is my church." Both were true, at least as far as he was concerned, and few but Harriette contradicted him. One can always find his Rolls Royce parked outside church on Sunday for nine o'clock Mass. In twenty-five years, he'd never missed Mass.
"What's dat meatball doin' here," the Chief hissed. He turned to the Mayor with an unpleasant look, noticing the approaching figure.
"Well, well," the Mayor said. "Georgie's just pulled up, with some heavies. All I need, a scene stealer, and with elections approaching. Why doesn't that goon give up on Harriette," the Mayor said looking to the Chief intently. He moved his face close. "I'll bet you a month's pay check he never gets to first base with Harriette, much less an opportunity of fucking her," he said quietly. "But, damn it! Find out what happened at that church," he demanded, almost shaking with rage.
The Chief glanced at Dude, who was standing to the side, absorbing everything, reelecting nothing, reflexive. He looked around and back to the Mayor. "Let's hear what Georgie's gotta say," Chief said to the Mayor in a low voice, shrugging his shoulders.
Two of George Martinelli's goons entered the hospital first and looked around, followed by their boss, who discarded his cigar before entering. Once again the media flooded in behind him, only to be rebuffed by waiting officers and hospital security staff. Martinelli walked directly to where the Mayor and the Chief stood, his cock pulsating behind the material of its confinement. He shook hands with both, and they all forced a smile to some degree, though the moment stayed tense. Dude studied carefully the spectacle unfurling before him, staying to the shadow. This wasn't his game. It belonged to the Chief and Mayor. His problem was behind a curtain having her wounds tended.
"Mr. Mayor," Martinelli began in his usually elegant way. "How are you..."
"Cut the crap, Georgie. Miss Karson's gonna be okay," the Chief stated bluntly, keeping things real. Before him stood a man he'd been trying to put away for years. And here he was parading around with his prized cock, without a care in the world, a prized peacock strutting his stuff.
"Ah, Chief. How are you my friend? How have you been," Mr. Martinelli solicited as he again adjusted his attire. He was very finicky about his appearance and only the finest things were acceptable to him. Everything about him was expensive, except his reputation, depending on your point of view. This man was a generous philanthropist who spread wealth around, though some claimed it was simply to buy the affection of the masses.
"I'm not your friend and don't be worryin' 'bout my health," the Chief snapped in a guttural tone. The Mayor too, would have liked to see this man behind bars, but tolerated the intrusion with some reservation. Martinelli appeared unruffled by the greeting, as he was accustomed to, as he saw it, being misunderstood. Still, he played the hand dealt him.
"Chief, you offend me," he began in a melancholy voice. "I'm simply concerned with my future conquest. Is that a crime?" The Chief was not amused, but bit his tongue. "I don't want anything happening to that filly until after I've broken her."
"Mr. Martinelli, you are nuts," the Mayor said laughing.
